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Dispensation, II: You Did Marry Her. And Ten Years Later . . .
Ian Haight
Your dog runs alongside the gravel road to
your wooden-planked house, his
cinnamon-copper coat shifting with the light through
leaves of maples as he approaches, tongue
lolling, tail wagging. The children run with him.
To celebrate your anniversary
you decide to fly up
in a helicopter and jump. Lift off
from the ’copter platform everyone’s
elbows knees and hips padded and
eyes goggled heads helmeted the
dog sitting between
velour seats. At the proper height you all jump, the children
first somersaulting once twice four
times falling fast and then slow
with turns and twists of arms
and legs. A thrill to have the world’s
mountains and rivers far below.
A city’s glass-covered concrete
towers rise slowly toward everyone’s feet.
The eldest child pulls first
the chute doesn’t open he looks at
you, pulls the safety chute it doesn’t open
you grip him bracing for impact
he clutches you, arms looped in the pack’s bands
you pull your cord the chute opens
everyone drifts into bay waters of the city.
The youngest child can’t swim.
The helicopter’s rotors don’t
slow when it enters water, pilot-window-first, the air
and thrown froth splashing your faces.
Smoke rises though the wrecked
engine’s body sinks beneath waves.
Together with your wife, you swim
to shore, kids on your backs. Holding
hands, you’ve left the helicopter company offices
in the country, begun
walking a dirt road for home
when the day manager runs
out, gives you
a souvenir DVD
and a plate of gumdrops.
Ian Haight
Your dog runs alongside the gravel road to
your wooden-planked house, his
cinnamon-copper coat shifting with the light through
leaves of maples as he approaches, tongue
lolling, tail wagging. The children run with him.
To celebrate your anniversary
you decide to fly up
in a helicopter and jump. Lift off
from the ’copter platform everyone’s
elbows knees and hips padded and
eyes goggled heads helmeted the
dog sitting between
velour seats. At the proper height you all jump, the children
first somersaulting once twice four
times falling fast and then slow
with turns and twists of arms
and legs. A thrill to have the world’s
mountains and rivers far below.
A city’s glass-covered concrete
towers rise slowly toward everyone’s feet.
The eldest child pulls first
the chute doesn’t open he looks at
you, pulls the safety chute it doesn’t open
you grip him bracing for impact
he clutches you, arms looped in the pack’s bands
you pull your cord the chute opens
everyone drifts into bay waters of the city.
The youngest child can’t swim.
The helicopter’s rotors don’t
slow when it enters water, pilot-window-first, the air
and thrown froth splashing your faces.
Smoke rises though the wrecked
engine’s body sinks beneath waves.
Together with your wife, you swim
to shore, kids on your backs. Holding
hands, you’ve left the helicopter company offices
in the country, begun
walking a dirt road for home
when the day manager runs
out, gives you
a souvenir DVD
and a plate of gumdrops.